Her face and form intrigued him
She had such classic lines.
"I must get her in my studio,
I have just the piece in mind."
He hired her right then and there.
He paid her well to pose.
His artist heart beat fastest
at the moment she disrobed.
Her hair cut short, much like a boys,
small breasted and so trim.
Her features first in plaster cast
formed perfectly by him.
Later he would cast, in Bronze,
"The huntress" **** and bold.
In truth her arrows struck his heart
and Love poured forth, I'm told.
A happy life together shared-
alas, they both are dust.
In statue form she's ever young
for Bronze will never rust.

James Holmes awaited news of his fate. (Would his madness be held to mitigateHis terrible sin, his awful crimes; Life or Death, How to decide?)
What is Justice for multiple homicides?
He murdered twelve and injured more; Now what would the verdict hold in store?
A lethal injection, A Lover’s pinch, was that the outcome he devoutly wished?
Else he would get the world and time to contemplate his awful crimes.
He’d be Locked away from the world of men; never to be free again.
Haunted by souls he condemned to death; who had cursed him with their dying breath.


Life, the jury has decreed, as punishment for his awful deed.


He'll be locked in the prison of his mind; an awful penance is this gift of time.

I think snow and I could become better friends
if Snow would confine itself to where the grass ends.
Snow should linger on ski slopes, packed powder preferred.
On my driveway and walks snow should not be observed.
For this white gift from heaven is not very nice.
Snow is cold and it's wet and it soon turns to ice.
Snow snarls my commute and makes parking a mess.
My back hates when I shovel, but I fear I digress.
Snow is beautiful, falling, driven by the wind,
but a pain in the ***** when the clean up begins.
Oh, I could wax poetic of snow's pristine beauty,
but my wife has assigned me to shoveling duty.
The lottery Genie could do me a big favor,
if my numbers all hit, she could well prove my savior.
On my beach, I'd recline, with a drink in my hand
and sing of "White Christmas" with my own back up band.

A child this day was born in Britain
but no camera men record this birth.
He's not the child of Kate and William.
He's common clay of humble earth.
He'll soldier on four score and seven
He'll fight and win your senseless war.
He'll never claim noblesse oblige
as he shoulders debt from those before.
One is born Royal, the other common.
One wears Purple, the other, dust.
One shall be the king of England.
One's blood is blue, the other, rust.
One shall head the church of England
The other lad will own a pub.
Which one in time will prove right noble?
to quote the bard "Aye, there's the rub."

I take the Apple in my hand
And ponder how this tasty fruit,
Once a bite or two was eaten,
caused God to drive us out of Eden.

But what if Adam didn’t bite
upon that fatal primal night,
and God decided Eve, alone,
should pack and leave their Garden home?

Would Adam by himself remain,
long centuries after Eve was dust?
Converse with snake and count on sheep
if and when he couldn’t sleep?

Would the fiery angel give a shout
when Adam passed on his way out,
to join Eve on the Darkling plain?
One paradise lost, and one regained.

For Forty years he’d played and coached
and referred the game.
Now Alzheimer’s stolen
nearly all except his name.
With his past now dis-remembered
and all hope of a future gone
what else was there left to him
except to just play on.
The pickup game he’d played for years
Became his sole relief
He played with men he once knew well
before he met time’s thief.
You see him running on the pitch
with purpose, or with none.
And if he goes off sides at times
his friends say no harm done.
Like a child, he chases *****.
His scoring touch is gone.
Yet, in the moment, he finds joy
And so he just plays on.

4 A.M.- it’s much too early
It’s no surprise I’m feeling surly.
It’s cold outside and lacking light.
It feels like the middle of the night!
(When you’ve been out late and had a few
Mornings are no friend to you.)
Villainous clock that chirps and chimes
I’ll hit your snooze button one more time.
Its cold, and someone stole the covers
I reach for them as for a lover.
Alas, my larcenous spouse has taken them
I guess I’m in for a brewed awakening.

Lilliana was quite beautiful
in most peoples’ estimation.
Even her name was musical
Her proportions were perfection.
She, being young,
heard her praises sung
by the minstrels of the land.
Of course she was a princess.
His Royal Highness was her Dad.
.
Little gifts began appearing,
anonymously, of course
Often she heard some angel singing
but could not trace the source.
Her little sisters teased her
about her mystery man.
Who would do anything to please her
Who'd ask Father for her hand.

Could his Father be the Duke
or perhaps the son of an Earl.
Perhaps a Prince of Persia,
from half way across the World
But they were wrong and she was wrong
wrong in the n th degree.
for it was Cupid who loved her so,
the son of Aphrodite.

A bust of Benjamin Franklin,
Too valuable to even be dusted,
She stole from her former employer,
Thus proving she’s not to be trusted.
Authorities now have her trussed
She was nabbed with the bust-
She had busted.
She was busted with a bust
In her bag
For fingerprints
The bust will be dusted.
Busted with a busted bust on a bus?
Some people can never be trusted!

It should all become clear as you continue to read




My wife has been driving me crazy
with long lists of chores I must do.
I’d rather just sit and watch football,
So I slipped out the back door to you.

Your smile took the chill from the evening,
You seemed genuinely glad I was there
The forty niner's and Giants were playing
You sat me in my favorite chair.

You procured me a “Girl “for my pleasure,
Another, when the first “Girl “was through.
You brought me an excellent dinner.
There seemed nothing that you wouldn’t do.

We engage in a harmless flirtation-
You toss your blonde hair and laugh sweet-
Rex Ryan would lust for you madly
As you sure have a nice pair of…feet.

True, I know there are others
I must share you with, even today.
But I’m not the type to be jealous,
I know your just earning your pay.

I settled the tab with the cashier
and left a nice tip there for you.
You know I’ll be back for the Giants and  Pats-
Meanwhile, there are chores I must do.

The decedent was in perfect health
As all our tox screens show.
No visible wounds,
No blunt force trauma,
Believe me, We would know.
A “Dear John” letter
Found near the corpse
revealed that she would go.
The coroner ruled
that loss of Love
had proved the fatal blow.

We two were born on the same day
An Ocean apart, a world away.
My Dad dug graves,
His Dad owned stores
We both looked forward
to one day more.

The world then changed
for Him and me.
Both off to university.
I went to Queens
He attended Cologne
He partied with Models
I sat home alone.

The world then changed
for Him and me.
He became a captain
of industry.
With a Manse in the Mountains
and one by the shore.
I rented a place
for one day more.

The world then changed
unexpectedly
it was he who succumbed
to infirmity
When all his wealth
his billions, his stores,
failed to purchase
him one day more.

The World has changed
Just I go on
My wealthy twin
is dead and gone.
No wealthier that I was before
Yet enriched by the gift
of one day more.

This child will teach us how to love,
and let us hope again.
God’s Son, nurtured by a girl,
this child of Bethlehem.

This child can make a family
where there was none before,
and make us crave the crafts of peace
and not the arts of war.

This child, now born, will change the world
from mundane to Divine.
The wisdom of this innocent
like the star, in darkness, shines.

They buried him at Calverton,
the sky provided tears.
His mourners were the Few, the Proud.
No next of kin appeared.

For years he’d wandered City Streets,
a casualty of war.
The V.A. patched his injuries,
they couldn’t bandage what he saw.

The State had little use for him,
once the Peace accords were signed
His tiny pension was just enough
to purchase anodyne.

The blessings of a dreamless sleep,
He sometimes found in wine.
Otherwise he was on night patrol
With friends he’d left behind.

It’s hard to live civilian life,
His haunted mind was too far gone.
His body slept in Central Park
while his soul patrolled Khe San.

Then one night, more cold then most,
that solider finally yields.
She found him, dead, beneath the bridge
That he’d called “home” for years.

That kindly New York City Cop,
who knew he was a Vet,
arranged a simple funeral.
-That’s more than many get.

Present, aim, ready, fire!
They fire three quick rounds.
Accompanied by a tape of “Taps”
They commit him to the ground.

My model is a comely lass whose husband has commissioned me.
Her cheeks are flushed with natural blush, her half smile not quite matronly.
This dress is low cut to reveal the rise and falling of her *******.
Lisa has sat for me before (which allows some familiarity.)
This portrait will adorn her home and celebrates her second child.
I could suggest some jest of mine was the cause that made her smile,
but my medium is the truth and rank deceit is not my style.
My brushstrokes capture the last of her youth;
A half smile to intrigue mankind.

There’s a stranger in my house
I have seen him mope around
In some fuzzy bedroom slippers
and a faded dressing gown.

He somehow seems familiar
Though I cannot place the face
My memory retrieval seems
lost without a trace

Every time I see him
He is staring back intently
As if he too is searching
for a clue within his memory.


This morning he was back again
In a faded emerald robe-
You know, I have one like it-
Did he steal it, you suppose?

But that can’t be, I’m wearing it
I look up with a start
What a curse are full length mirrors
to a senescent aging ****.

Remakes of old foreign films
Frankly fail to thrill.
Comedies are too predictable,
mistaking flatulence for skill.
It’s time to think outside the box.
Turn a genre on its head.
I’m working on a thriller
About folks haunted by one dead.
They must learn the ghost’s identity;
He’ll ***** them til they do.
The working title of my screenplay?
I’m calling it “Boo-Who?”

The Point of no Return



From a thousand applications, they selected just us few.
The launch window fast approaching, this seemed like a dream come true.
First they launched an orbiter, our link to Earth, our mother,
Then Robots built the base camp, I’ll be sharing with three others.
We face a lengthy trip through Space; I hope someone brings cards,
confined within a shielded space, fighting boredom and the odds.
Solar panels give us light, hydroponics food to eat
Where the drinking water is coming from I prefer not to think.
This is a one way mission, there’s no plan to bring us back.
Just new colonists now and then to bring us all we lack.
I’d hoped to have three girls along that I could judge like Paris.
Instead I’m with two lesbians and a hairy guy named Boris!

Outside our window, Bernini’s fountain played.
At night it often soothed John off to sleep.
My friend was frail and fragile, facing death,
without the comforts that Believer’s seek.

The poet had grown fearful of the dark,
so I kept candles burning through til dawn.
By then he was too weak to write or read,
but took some pleasure in a Robin’s song.

He grew anemic, and Rome’s winter chill
had penetrated into flesh and bone.
His love was far away, dear ***** Brawne.
By Love and duty, I tended him alone.

He coughed up blood, and by its color knew
the hour of his death was growing near.
He summoned me to prop him up in bed
The pain had mostly past despite my fears.

For seven hours thus we both remained,
beyond the help of Doctor, Clerk, or Priest.
There beside the Spanish steps he lingered,
It was nearly midnight when his breathing ceased.

In the Protestant graveyard you will find
all that was mortal of my Poet friend.
“Here lies one whose name was writ on water.”
I disagree, but I carved there what he said.

I read your obit yesterday,
The Wake, the Church ,
the whole nine yards.
I never got to say goodbye
before you ventured off to God.
Strange to see your name in print.
In black and white,it seemed so odd.
a casualty of carcinoma
metastasized from a black mole.
Are you a star within the night
looking down from high above?
or are you hiding in the ground
awaiting the last trumpet's sound.
Was your life all that you'd hoped
while, like a snowflake,
you fluttered down.
through time to eternity
to briefly linger
then be gone.

A child is born
to her ***** mom.
The ***** donor
has fled and gone.

The road seems hard
when walked alone,
but she has you
to depend upon.

You have family to help.
You have courage and grace.
A dependent to nurture
and the future to face.

Your tale is common,
but sadly so.
For bad boys come,
and bad boys go.

They lack the virtues
that define a man.
Who would be a father
and become a Dad.

That's why your own mom
held your hand
as you bore down
again, again.

Rewarded with a cry,
her song.
This morning early
A child is born.

We had quite a run old girl,
nearly all of it was fun.
A rose is my final gift to you.
I, too, am nearly done.

For sixty years we played the songs,
the stuff of memories.
Our audience has greyed or strayed,
now you've abandoned me.

Our house is like a record store-
Ten thousand old L.P's
Each song labelled and cataloged
-memories in melody.

I did our show that one last time
for those fans who still care.
The truth is I cannot go on
because you are not there.

Beside my bed, your photograph,
You're ever on my mind;
a single rose named Dorothy
whose melodies were mine.

She started out some years ago

the wife of a friend of mine.

The lady’s name was Lisa,

and she was a Florentine.

Through all of my commissions

She followed me through time.

Lisa Gherardini

had a shy and secret grin.

I remember when she sat for me,

the light was perfect then,

But something less than perfect

Was the aspect of her eyes.

She had a stigmatism

That my art could not disguise.

Last night, lying there with Salai

my apprentice and my love.

I looked into his eyes

and was inspired from above..



I hurried to my studio

And burned the midnight oil

This time Salai sat for me

in the same pose as the girl.

.

The result I deem perfection,

I will keep her till I die..

I’ll never sell this mystery girl

That has my lovers’ eyes.

A terrible year it was, in everyone’s eyes.
A King and a Prince many loved had both died.
In the Cities there were riots; in the land, discontent-
In Vietnam our money and blood were ill-spent.
So as that year ended, to no one’s surprise,
We all seemed more than happy to bid it goodbye.

Then from the firmament on that Christmas Eve
Word came from Heaven to grant us reprieve.
A quotation from Genesis was read on the air,
much to the dismay of Miss Murray O’Hare.

Then the image that grabbed us, that could not be forgot
The image of Earthrise as a little blue dot
A remnant of Eden, from which mankind was expelled
A beautiful picture of the Earth where we dwell .

The planet seemed peaceful when viewed from afar
And all that seemed missing was a bright guiding star.

If India and Pakistan
disagree to disagree
and the missiles begin flying
is there anyplace to flee?
Whole divisions of their armies
will be vanished, vaporized.
It is not only combatants that
will face death from the sky.
Ten million souls will met their end
within a half an hour.
Some twenty millions more
will be sickened by its power.
A cloud of ash will rise above
and block the sun from shining.
Winter will be premature
and soon the crops are dying.
A quarter of the human race
dead of famine and disease.
Please fellows, put your toys away
I beg you from my knees.

It has come to our attention that your License was suspended-
for failing to stop, within lines, for needed punctuation.
Your casual allusions to things and times of yore
Are confusing to the reader, and frankly mark you as a bore.
Your long winded analogies sometimes beggar all belief,
though some here think that your intent is comical relief.
All attempts at alliteration have been something of a dud;
You fall in love with the technique and sound like Elmer Fudd.
Your recent "Ode to Flatulence" using onomatopoeia
was but the latest instance of your verbal diarrhea.
Your metaphors are pitiful and this committee looks askance
at your evident confusion of mere lust with true romance.
Still, we are both kind and merciful (as bureaucrats tend to be) ,
So we'll renew you for another year upon remittance of the fee.

He's nobody's hero,
never wanted to be.
Just one of a million
who were sent overseas.
He dropped into France
on a long ago night.
Near Mere St Eglise
where he joined in the fight.
"These are the real heroes"
and he points to the Stones
of his friends and comrades
who never came home.

These empty rooms
devoid of life,
behind a bookcase
in the hall.
This was, for a time,
our home
while the Germans
held the Dutch in thrall.
My wife since dead from hunger,
my daughters in a common grave.
I, Otto Frank, the sole survivor.
Is there no one I can save?
Annelise, my dearest daughter,
Miep Gies gave me your book.
The Germans cast it on the floor
without a second look.
Here in your words I find
that not all of you has died.
Here your words may speak
for all who suffered, all who cried.
Its small comfort for an old man,
broken, ready for the grave,
but my girl might be a symbol
for all those we could not save.

The envelope please!
No, not that one, you fool.
Mistakes have been made
by Price-Waterhouse tools.
A Harvey –like gaff
At the Oscars was made
And the wrong cast and crew
were called up to the stage.
How mortifying
It sure must have been
To be standing up there
And learn you didn’t win.
Kimmel mocked Harvey
For just such a switch
Last night Jimmy learned
That karma’s a witch

Her skin may bear some marks
from the Sun she has faced,
but she still holds a beauty
that time can't erase.
The blonde hair of her youth
now is silver and gold,
but her scent is alluring
and she's tempting to hold.
She's a Woman well Lived.
She is sixty years old.
Her life isn't over,
despite what she's been told.
Her ******* are translucent.
Blue veined and full.
A hand full and more
and enjoyable still.
Her kisses still sweet
as the day we first met.
The time, passing quickly,
gave no cause for regret.
So come lie with me, Love,
ere the evening is gone.
Don't be the least shy
we can leave the lights on.

His last sunrise shone in his eyes
as we readied, aimed and fired.
“Shoot straight you *******!”“Breaker” yelled
as his life and time expired..

Handcock and Morant together lay
sightless eyes toward the sky.
The courts-martial had convicted them.
Kitchener ordered that they die.

How did I feel about this man
my bullet helped to slaughter?
This man who ordered Boers shot
without a written order.

I’d seen him fight, and bravely too
when Boers struck the town.
The prisoners had manned the line
and helped us hold our ground..

Now stretcher-bearers took their limbs
and bore them from the field.
So fast and secret were their deaths
There was no chance of appeal.

Australians had been killed by Scotch
to please the Dutchman Boers.
British men and Africans-
we were all just following orders.

I stand before the wrack of it;
The home where I first learned to read.
The humble house of all our hopes.
Our refuge in our hour of need.

Surrounded by a plywood fence,
she lies in splinters on the ground.
The debris field of my yesterdays
is spread about me all around.

I find a piece of painted wood
with our house numbers nailed upon.
I rescue it for Closure's sake
One last look, then I am gone.

In this garden of stone
I reflect on my own
Of the journey that grief has imposed:
Those first sad raw days
When I walked in a daze
At the loss of a parent I loved.

Grief’s first taste is bitter
And only slowly gets better;
An acquired perspective I think.
It must be endured
Or else it consumes
those who seek false refuge in drink.

To love and be loved
Always carries this cost:
The Reaper insists on division.
The survivor condemned
To weep bitter tears
For that is the price of admission.

It was a semi- private room,
and my bed was closest to the door.
Beyond the screen my neighbor lay
by the window and told me what he saw.

For days I lay in constant pain-
in traction from the surgeon's blade.
My neighbor helped to pass the time
as he described life's grand parade.

Across the street there was a park
and a little pond where children played.
He told me of the ducks and geese,
Of dappled sunlight the trees displayed.

My fellow patient was quite old,
and his race was nearly run.
The intervals of silence grew
where no words issued from his tongue.

I so enjoyed the moments when
he'd wake and tell me what he saw.
One time he saw a bird of prey
****** up a mousling in its claw.

Then one day alarms rang out
His E.K.G. went monotone.
they came and pounded on his chest
but I knew I would be alone.

The next day his nurse came to me
and told me that my friend was gone;
Hopefully to a better place
Free from pain and safe from harm.

I asked if it were possible
to move my bed where his had been
to let me have the window spot.
to see the outside world again.

"It will not do you good or ill
to sit beside that window sill
there's little light and, after all,
it's only facing a brick wall"

But I protest- "how could that be?"
What of the park he described to me?"
"I think he was just being kind,
for you see the man who died was blind."

They were brothers born a year apart,
the elder just nineteen.
Folks said they were inseparable-
Unbeatable as a team..

But elder brother went to war
in far off Vietnam.
His brother vividly recalls
The day He heard Jim’s gone.

Never again to take the field,
Or hear his voice again.
A Lifetime’s conversation
brought prematurely to an end.

One was taken, one was left,
Both forever changed.
One brother is forever young-
There in the picture frame.

The Younger is the elder now
Each year he grows more grey.
Sufficient is the evil
He has dealt with since that day

He ,wounded, lay in no man's land
fearful to crawl fro or back.
He'd wait for darkness to try his luck
and hoped the Huns would not attack.
Something was needed to pass the time
He reached his hand into his sack
Aeschylus, in the original Greek,
He read with pleasure
until night turned black
In the Attic tongue he was well honed
and so he never felt alone.

The Crust of the Earth Ruptured in a caldera.
The Sun blotted out by the ash and ejecta.
Dark lay the land in that perilous time.
way back before history had written a line.

The carnage terrific, there were deaths beyond count
When Starvation set in we saw casualties mount.
We came so close then to the end of our race.
There were ten thousand humans left on Earth's face.

These ten thousand survivors, the sad Remanent left
were fruitful and multiplied, at least that's a good guess.
At last count we numbered seven Billions or more.
We have plundered the land and polluted the shore.

I wonder when Yellowstone will rumble again.
It will blot out the stars and will threaten World's end.
But if some should survive and start over again
for the sake of Our Father please this time stay friends.

I remember, when I was young,
Gloria Lynne and this song she sung,
She sang with perfect pitch:
I wish you Love.”

It was a light Blues serenade,
A song my older sisters played.
As I would sip my Lemonade
She wished me love.

Now that heart of hers,
so full of Love
Has become one
with Him above.
So, with regrets,
As fate abets,
She’s been set free

Yet on a certain day in Spring
If I should chance to hear
a bluebird sing.
I may recall
That, after all,
She wished me Love.

Once upon a time
in a nasty little war
Cromwell came to Ireland
like a blight upon our shore.

He waged war upon my people
in a genocidal style
but some revisionists might argue
he was merciful and mild.

At Drogheda he killed thousands,
what a slaughter that place saw,
at the hands of "Christian" soldiers-
surely righteous was their cause.

Then, when the war was over
and all our blood was spent
the Gaels, who used to own the land,
all wound up paying rent

" To Hell or Connacht" is a phrase
sound biters did invent
I don't know if he uttered it
but its surely what he meant!

The release was unintentional, the Public was assured.
No vaccines were available, not that they’d have cured.
For every ten infected, they knew that eight would die.
more lethal than Ebola, and the people wondered why?

It was born in a researcher’s lab, a variant of the flu;
the strain from 1918 that murdered millions too.
Why he was let to do this work, I cannot understand.
Sadly we can’t ask him as he died by his own hand.

It preyed on old and young alike, it slaughtered rich and poor.
The dead were left unburied, and the pestilence slaughtered more.
It was clear the Horsemen rode that night, we heard their banshee scream.
We decided if we were to die, that first we’d have Poteen.

Poteen is a potent brew, distilled three times by hand.
Its an old family recipe handed down by my old man.
As golden drops poured in each glass we raised a toast on high:
“We salute thee, Mighty Lord, we who are about to die.”

A Warmth of stupefaction went coursing through our veins.
When we finally sobered up, no pathogens remained.
Who knew my father’s recipe could put the plague to flight?
We saved as many as we could; no man went dry that night.

The Sun shone on a brave new world, the air was fresh and clean..
The rivers still flowed to the Seas and Eagles still took flight
The Politicians all had died; both the Left and Right.
We left the Cities far behind and lived upon the land,
And never was a jug of “dew” far from my right hand.

I was waiting on the platform,

waiting for a westbound train.

I was thinking about you

but I didn’t know your name.

I had seen you at the wedding-

You were playing bass guitar.

I didn’t at the time yet know

How wonderful you are.

Amazingly the train was late,

delayed because of rain.

You came with that umbrella.

I forgot about my plane.

I somehow found my courage

to finally ask your name.

In time we would share sorrow

But first we’d share romance.

I’ve no regrets that we two loved-

just grateful for the chance.

Someday I’ll tell our children

How we met there in the rain

How a shared umbrella

brought us close

While waiting for a train.

Regulation time was up
and our team one goal behind.
At the referees sole discretion
Is the length of stoppage time.
How much time do we have left?
What difference can we make?
Already we’re shorthanded
And the playoffs are at stake.
We’re like a man whose heart has failed
a time or two before.
Each time nearly off with death
Until revived for more.
Or somebody whose lease is up
And headed for the door,
Waiting only for the truck
to take their past to store.
I heard my pulse race in my ears
As I penetrate their line.
I tuck the ball inside the post
And score in stoppage time.

Just ahead a shootout waits
which will decide our fate.
When playing games of sudden death
What a difference seconds make.

Little children will monitor speech
for the hint of a racist remark.
Veterans cannot be trusted with guns,
there’s a risk that they’re violent at heart.
Is healthcare a tax or a fee
in the land of the formerly free?

Old white men to the back of the bus,
Check your privilege, leave the driving to us.
Barbarians encounter no gate,
freely enter and live off the State.
They‘ll vote Democratic, you see
in the land of the formerly free.

Our President, a liar and phony,
doles out largesse to all of his cronies.
While our roads and our bridges need work
We’re distracted by some twit that twerks.
It’s all misdirection you see
in the land of the formerly free.

Taxpayers are only half free,
constrained by demands of the State.
Despite their Utopian schemes
Inequality grows to extremes
They divided to conquer you see
in the land of the formerly free.

Back when Bedlam was in full swing,
and faced with overload,
some lunatics who hadn't killed
were forced to hit the road..
Faced with no "room at the inn"
such persons were discharged
but were made known to the police
as "Lunatics at large"

Since Willow brook has closed its doors,
and Creedmore has downsized,
we give our mentally ill some pills
and house them 'neath the skies.

They mutter to themselves at times
as lonely they do roam
in search of a dry underpass
that must  serve them for a home.

How wonderful that modern drugs
makes zombies of our brothers,
and leave us blithely unaware
of how badly we treat others.

For Secret servicing so nice
and pay for play that rocked your world,
best keep private your secret vice;
If there's a next time, Pay the Girl.

Squabbling with a *******
in Cartegena of all places
has made you unemployable
and caused flushed and embarrassed faces.

Your actions placed POTUS at risk-
Foreign relations are so tricky
Settle on price before you play,
avoiding situations sticky.

Your servicing was less than secret
The whole world knows you sought some "strange"
A shame you lasted just a minute-
still no excuse to ask for change.

When Desmond Fitzgerald succumbed to disease

his hereditary knighthood expired.

He had fathered no son to take up his sword.

No heir means the title’s retired.

For eight hundred years and twenty nine scions

The grand clan Fitzgerald held sway.

Now with his last breath, no successor is left

So, with honors, he’s buried today.



The green knight of Kerry is still in the field,

The last Irish knight in the fray.

Not that he sallies forth swinging a sword.

He sits home and drinks sherry all day.

I cannot see the man upstairs, but yet I know he’s there;
He plays his telly very loud, he must be deaf, I swear.
I hear him stomping to the loo several times each night.
He’s either back to drinking coffee, or his prostrate isn’t right.
He pays his rent on time each month; he puts it with my mail.
He leaves for work before I wake, and his trash is in my pail.
I know that he loves mallow mars and the beer he drinks is Schlitz.
So by these sure and certain signs I know that he exists.
I know some of my neighbors must harbor secret doubts.
The man upstairs is an introvert, you never see him out.
Every night at 6 P.M. when he plops into his chair,
His presence is revealed to me; He’s the man upstairs.

Not on your lips,
No, not anytime soon.
Your mind has become
Like the dark side of the moon.
Full of holes and lacunae
and dark shadowy walls.
Sometimes words fail you,
More often, recall.
I show you a picture
Of when you were young
I can see it’s a struggle,
on the tip of your tongue.
I wish you could help me
Match names and faces
Caught here in print
In silvery traces
If only a synapse could snap into place
Give you back the dignity
That time has erased.
Then you could name these comrades
headed off to the war.
Maybe then could you tell me
where past years are.

From the moment I first saw her
I knew she was the girl for me.
Sun freckled skin and auburn hair;
Her eyes laughed Merrily .
Intelligent and focused
with a smile forever young.
I doubted not a moment
that she would be "the one"

"I love thee, I love but thee
With a love that shall not die
Till the sun grows cold
And the stars grow old." -
I'll be your special guy!

She looked at me, perhaps askance,
When I had said those lines.
I think she knew their provenance
was another place and time.
" Unless you're wearing Pantaloons
and have a balding pate
don't be quoting Shakespeare at me
if you expect a second date."

Unabashedly ashamed was I-
caught stealing others' lines.
I longed to be her Romeo
with balconies to climb.

To lie with her beneath the stars
to share Love's sweet delights-
these days its but a memory
that keeps me warm at nights.

I walked this campus in my youth,
forty years ago today.
The air is sweet from recent rain
here on the quad lawn where we played.

It's changed, of course,
that building is new.
Jefferson Hall is next, they say.
I graduated here in May.
I need not give the year away
I 'll only say it was a time,
like now, of great uncertainty.

I remember you like yesterday,
Your eyes a deep cerulean blue.
Your long and flowing auburn hair.
Those bee stung lips so sweet and true.

On impulse, just then
I tried the door.
Surprised I was when it gave way
I entered in the Bursars room
and heard your voice just down the hall.

For sure, twas you.
I'd know that voice
if all the world should pass away
I made my way towards your voice
anticipating ecstasy.

A joyful union there awaits
to hold you once more in my arms
life beyond death to be united
with you so many years since gone.

I entered then into the room
in hopes that she I loved was there.
This was the place where we first met
a place where, sadly, none appeared.

A wistful smile, a final glance
from your poor poet of Romance.
too much a dreamer, most would say,
as I closed the door to yesterday